


Kinæsthesia

by Holdt



Series: Position Assurance [6]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-04-12 08:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19128727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holdt/pseuds/Holdt
Summary: "You are your own worst enemy."- Martha Kent





	Kinæsthesia

**Author's Note:**

> • psi: anomalous processes of information or energy transfer that are currently unexplained in terms of known physical or biological mechanisms

“I'm living in an age that calls darkness light  
though my language is dead, still the shapes fill my head.”

—Arcade Fire

                                                  

 

Metropolis is different now. Oh, the streets all go the same way (for the most part), the skyline is still just as breathtaking (from a certain angle), and the city is just as vibrant…on the surface. But everywhere Clark looks, he sees people rushing, faces strained. Laughter seems too loud, the careless bustle too… too _much._ Every once in a while and far more than he’d like, Clark catches sight of a Metropolitan glancing up at the sky, and then he realizes: they all do it.

It’s like being in a foreign country where all the signs look legible, but turn out upon closer inspection to be utterly unrecognizable. The barista in the coffee shop, who pauses to glance up and out the window at a clear blue sky when she hands him his drink; the businessman waiting at the corner, who instead of checking the traffic before he crosses the road, checks the skyline instead; the mothers with children in the park, who constantly scan the clouds as they talk over and around their children’s chatter.

Everyone , all of them— waiting for the next disaster from above. The next Black Zero. The next Doomsday.

Getting around the idea that this too is his doing, or that he owns some part of responsibility in this is impossible. He’d leave again, if that was all he saw—he wouldn’t be able to stomach the minute by minute reminders, if it werent for the other thing he sees as well.

 _Shaharreth._ The sigil for hope flies everywhere Superman does, but nowhere so much as it does in Metropolis. On jackets and watches, on lunchboxes, on satchels and gym wear, bottles, keychains, trinkets, rings, even spray painted onto the sides of crumbling brick buildings and gleaming limestone edifices in stark white and red - _shaharreth_.

If they can keep hope, what right does he have to do anything less? So Clark hunches, head down as he hikes the wide sidewalks into narrower spaces, where people don’t look up so much as look out for themselves.

Sometimes he dreams, Clark . Of the heavy weight of Bruce's protection, Bruce's _understanding_ , seeping into him. Clark dreams of fragile slick skin and heady, unyielding possession. Rough hands and soft words. Conviction and iron will.

He dreams of safety, of being known and wanted. Of love.

Of _being_ loved.

Clark had gone to his Fortress to escape the threads of his life, to become something more; some _one_ more. He’d found Jor-El’s ruthless dedication instead and… It doesn’t suit him. He’d rather keep his pain if it means that it preserves his compassion.

It's hard, so hard to keep from listening for— listening _to_ —   the sound of Bruce's heartbeat, Bruce's _life_ at those times. Listening from afar to what he can't have _here_ …

 

 

“I like worrying about you.” - Clark, Superman II

 

He's been lying awake for hours. The sniffle catches his attention when he rolls over in his lumpy, unmade bed.

It takes less than five seconds and zero thought to find himself hovering above a small patio in France, the moon silhouetting his destination. He comes in slow, comes in for a landing even slower, suddenly unsure.

“Clark…? Wha… what are you doing here?”

With a frown, Clark takes in her posture— arms wrapped tightly around herself, thin shawl whipping in the breeze. "Thought I heard trouble, Lo. Everything alright?"

"I appreciate you flying all this way. But I need you to stop tracking me."

"I'm not here to change your mind, or to bother you—”

"I'm fine. Just considering my options."

Clark glances from her heels to the edge of the building, to the ancient safety bar at waist height, then down, at the twenty-floor drop beneath his boots.

“No,” Lois says, sounding exasperated. “No, of course not.”

“Right.” Clark lands lightly, troubled. Not because of the obvious, not because of what he can see: that Lois is uncomfortable with his presence. He lands because of what he _can’t_ see, but can sense nonetheless. “Lois, I think we should talk.”

"There isn't much left to talk about now is there? I mean, you can’t have come so far just to... You can’t just show up this way."

"I guess I deserved that," he muses aloud. She’d told him how her leaving had been for her own reasons, but deep down, Clark had always known it was him. Something he’d done, something he _was. Something he couldn’t change._

 _I thought you were hurt._ He doesn’t let the words escape. Instead, he eyes the rip in the shawl lying over her slender shoulders.

"You know, it’s nice up here. Good view." He can’t stop staring, now that he’s identified the source of his unease. "Lois..."

"No."

Clark clenches his hands. Takes several deep, slow breaths. "Just let me do something."

"Alright," she says, fixing him with a clear eyed look. "You can go home."

He steps back at that, tears his eyes away. She’s right. He has no right to be here, no business prying. "If you're sure…"

Lois sighs tiredly. “Say what you came to say, Clark.”

“There's...well, there's a lot going on right now, actually. I can’t really talk about it yet, but I wanted you to know first. I...I found someone. And I was… worried. About you.” The wind shifts, and though his cape billows, the last thing he feels is heroic. “I thought, you might be worried...about me. I just wanted you to know that I'll be alright." "Oh. That’s. That’s good. That’s _good_!" Lois' hands shake as she roots through her purse.

He takes a slow step forward, notes with regret  how she moves immediately to put that space between them again.

 _Oh_.

“Lois…”

“I’m fine!” Her voice is too loud, too frantic.

"I shouldn’t have come," he says, realizing. "I'm sorry. I thought. I didn’t realize you still— "

“Oh, dammit!” She half-turns away from him, and he makes himself stay silent, stay where he is. After a moment, she shoots him a wary side-look and pulls a tissue free. “You can’t come here and _say_ things like…” She makes a rude noise. “’ _Didn’t think I still_.’ You’re incredible, you know?

"I mean, no offense Clark - god, look at you - I love you, I do. But my life has been a shit-show ever since you showed up, and it’s not your fault. I’m not saying that.  It's just..."

Lois meets his eyes. "I’m never going to be okay with that life. I thought I could handle it - you being who you are...what you do. But..." Tears begin to slide silently down her cheeks.

"You have no idea. You have _no idea_ ," she gasps out. "You were there, and then you were _gone_ and I thought I'd died too.   I'm working on myself. I'm...working things out. Don’t worry about me."

He doesn’t think he knows how, anymore. How not to worry, how not to feel the burden of responsibility. “Lois—“

“So!” She dabs at her eyes, then takes a bracing breath and shoots him an anchor-worthy smile. "Who's the lucky girl?"

Grimacing, he raises his eyes to hers. “His name is Bruce.”

“Oh, that bastard,” she breathes. Clark winces. “ _You_ bastard.”

"I’m sorry." He wants to reach for her, to console her, but he’d have to be blind… insensate, not to feel the clear _aversion rejection guilt_. Clark keeps his hands to himself.

"For what it’s worth… Now. I know I can’t ask…" He trails off. No, he really can’t, can he? He can’t ask Lois if she’d like to be friends, like to go back and start over and try for something…

Something.

Lois nods tightly. “Me too.” Her voice is a whisper. “Just… give me time, ok? Do that thing you do – leave a number. Try not to terrify my cat."  

It doesn’t make it feel any better, but at least something in Clark feels settled.

“Something like friends?” he says, hoping. Fearing.

A reluctant twist to her lips that may just be a wisp of smile. “Sure. Something like that.”

“I’d like that a lot, Lois.”

 


End file.
